


a hug is worth a thousand words

by second_hand_heaven



Category: DCU
Genre: Angst, BAMF Alfred Pennyworth, Batfam Week 2018, Butlerdad Alfred is valid, Canonical Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Wayne Murders, alfred is a good dad, lots of hugs okay, they both need a lot of hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 04:49:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15549963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_hand_heaven/pseuds/second_hand_heaven
Summary: A collection of hugs between Alfred and Bruce over the years.





	a hug is worth a thousand words

**Author's Note:**

> for batfam week 2018 for the prompt: hurt/comfort
> 
> we all need some more butler-dad bat-son content

 

Robert Bruce Wayne is five hours old when Alfred first holds him. Martha, half asleep, her eyes glossed over, watches on with a warm smile. "He likes you," she says, but Alfred pays her little mind. He's watching this tiny creature cradled in white and blue blankets, amazed and afraid and feeling a warm kind of love bursting in his chest. 

A shy part of him had thought he wouldn't be allowed this, to hold the infant at all, least of all so soon. This was a time for Martha and Thomas and their child, not for him. But no, the Wayne's wouldn't have it. “You're family,” Martha had insisted, voice firm and commanding as ever, and Alfred was never one to disobey her. Thomas had taken Bruce from Martha's arms and passed him to Alfred, showing him where and how to hold the baby. So now, Alfred holds him, reluctant to let go. 

The child starts to cry, a fiercely shrill sound that one day will become a bellow. Alfred rocks the small infant in his arms nice and gently. “Now, now,” Alfred says, his tone as no-nonsense as ever, “there will be none of that.”    


The crying stops, like Alfred’s performed his first miracle and now he only needs two more to become a saint. Watery blue eyes watch him, curious, and yes, this boy is going to be smarter than all of them, he knows it. This child is going to outshine them all and Alfred can't wait to see it unfold. 

* * *

Bruce is four years old, tottering around the gardens of Wayne Manor in a pair of bright yellow rubber boots that Alfred insists on calling wellingtons, Americanisms be damned.  The boy’s cheeks are flushed as he runs up and jumps into puddles, laughing at the splashing water and the mess that he can make.    


Alfred half watches the boy, focusing on the car before him. It's a lovely spring day, tomorrow will be even better, and the Waynes planned for a drive out into the country for a picnic. Which meant, of course, the Rolls needed to be washed, on top of all the other preparations that Alfred needs to make. He hoses off the last of the suds, surveys his work, and reaches for the chamois and squeegee.    


He’s finished with the windows and about to start on the roof when he hears a soft thud, the scraping of gravel, and a high pitched wail. Alfred looks up from his reflection in the car bonnet. Bruce is on his hands and knees, face growing red. 

Oh dear.

"Alfred," Bruce cries, making his way to his feet unsteadily.    


Alfred tosses the chamois over his shoulder and is there by Bruce’s side in a moment, kneeling down in front of him. "Oh my boy," he says, sympathy in spades, "you're alright. Let me have a look." Alfred takes Bruce’s small hands in his, surveying the damage. His hands are a little scraped and reddened, but far from harmed. Bruce's legs, however, are another matter. There's gravel embedded in the boy's knees, a small trail of blood snaking down the front on each calf and into his boots. Alfred stands. "Come on, let’s get you cleaned up."   


Bruce holds up his arms and Alfred bends down to scoop him up, resting the boy over his hip. Bruce clings to Alfred's lapels, crying softly into his shoulder.    


With Bruce in his arms, Alfred hurries to the Manor, berating himself for letting this happen. Bruce is a child and children get hurt all the time, it’s part of growing up: skinned knees and climbing trees. It’s nothing too serious, but Alfred can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. 

They make it to the bathroom, Bruce's cries now only soft whimpers as Alfred sets him down on the vanity. Alfred pulls off the rubber boots, setting them down on the floor. With a damp cloth, Alfred wipes up the blood that's snaked its way down Bruce's stumpy legs and into his previously white socks. They'll definitely need to be soaked before they're washed, Alfred thinks to himself, continuing to clean away the blood.    


He peels off the socks, and positions Bruce so that he is sitting on the edge of the basin, his feet dangling in. Alfred turns on the faucet, waiting until the water is a satisfactory lukewarm temperature. The water trickles down Bruce's legs, turning a light pink as it mixes with the last traces of blood. Most of the dirt washes away with the blood, but there are a few tiny pebbles still there. Alfred reaches out to brush them away. At the first touch to his knees, Bruce winces, fresh tears falling down his cheeks. Alfred pauses, biting his cheek. "Master Bruce," he says, "I know this hurts, but I need you to be brave. Can you do that for me?" Bruce nods, the word 'brave' working its charm on the boy. "Good boy." Alfred tries again, this time much slower. With gentle hands, he washes the water over the wound, helping to ease away any gravel and dirt still left. Satisfied, Alfred turns off the water and grabs a towel. 

From the cupboard beneath the basin, Alfred pulls out the first aid kit. He retrieves a tube of antiseptic cream which Bruce eyes warily, 

Bruce's leg twitches as Alfred dabs the cream onto the cuts, but the boy remains steadfast and silent as Alfred makes quick work of the task. "All cleaned up. Now let's put a plaster on these and you'll be as good as new!"   


"Alfred," Bruce says slowly, "can I have a yellow one?"    


Alfred raises an eyebrow, recognising a word missing from Bruce's request. "What do we say?"   


A pout, and then, "please?"   


Much better. "Of course." Alfred rummages through the box and finds two bright yellow bandaids. He peels back the wrapping and sticks a bandaid over each knee, smoothing the edges neatly against Bruce’s skin. "All done."    


Alfred reaches under Bruce's arms, about to pick the boy up and place his feet back on the ground, when Bruce wraps his small arms around Alfred's neck, clinging to him tightly. The hug says  _ thank you _ , something the boy still struggles with. It’s alright though, a hug is more than enough.    


"You're welcome, Master Bruce," Alfred says, hugging the boy back. 

* * *

 

Bruce Wayne is eight years old and an orphan.    


Gotham speeds past in a blur of grey and misery as Alfred races to the scene. All he can think about is the boy. Alive, the officer had said, the Waynes are dead but their son is alive. It’s the only thing that keeps him going, his foot heavy on the accelerator. He pulls up at the curb in front of a 'no parking' sign, and leaps out the door before the car comes to a complete stop. 

Here he is at the scene of the crime. At the mouth of the alley, Alfred pauses. Police tape is pulled back to allow two gurney's to be pushed out of the alleyway and toward the coroner's van, two bodies encased in black. Martha and Thomas Wayne. Alfred swallows a curse, a denial, his throat tight around a lump of pain. 

He pushes it all down. He can grieve later, but for now, he needs to find the boy. In a sea of police officers, Bruce might just get washed away. He scans the scene, eyes wide and desperate. He knows what he must look like, but he doesn't care.    


There he is, impossibly small under a silver blanket, his pale fingers clenching tightly at the material. Bruce looks sickly, face tight, but he's alive, and that's more than Alfred could ask for right now. "Master Bruce," Alfred cries, his words hoarse.    


Bruce looks up, as does the mustachioed rookie cop beside him. Catching sight of Alfred, Bruce leaps to his feet. They run to each other, meeting in the middle, and Alfred drops to his knees to envelop the boy in a crushing hug.    


"You're okay," Alfred chokes, "you're okay." He's not sure if his words are for Bruce or himself. His collar grows damp, Bruce's tears soaking his shirt, but Alfred doesn't care, never cared, because Bruce is right here, in his arms, sobbing and shaking and breaking apart but he is alive. This wasn't a hurt that could be healed with bright yellow bandaids, but time would help, and so would Alfred. "I'm right here," Alfred says, "I will keep you safe. I promise you that."

He feels Bruce nod against his chest, those small fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. Alfred has questions, so many goddamned questions about the sonofabitch that did this, but he waits. The officers want a statement, have paperwork they want him to sign, but that can wait, it can all wait. Right now, he holds Bruce to him fiercely and refuses to let go.

* * *

 

Bruce is nineteen and he's saying goodbye.    


"I have to go," he says, eyes steeled with determination. His cases are packed, but Alfred knows it's only for show. There's a duffle stacked on top of the luggage that has everything Bruce could possibly need for the first part of this journey, and the rest, Alfred supposes, Bruce will find along the way.    


"I know," Alfred says, and he means it. He always knew Bruce would leave, even before he got the daft idea of become a vigilante stuck in his head. Gotham breaks everyone, and Alfred knows it's true. Bruce got a front row seat to the bitterness of this city when he was eight years old, a fate none of the Waynes -not Martha, not Thomas, and certainly not Bruce- deserved. Alfred wants to keep Bruce safe, vowed that he would, and if that means allowing this charade of the Bat to continue, then so be it. Bruce has to get away from this city, and once he does, a dark part of Alfred prays, may he never come back. "I expected you to sneak out.”   


"I thought about it," Bruce admits, "but I couldn't leave without saying goodbye." Bruce holds out his arms, and Alfred doesn’t hesitate before stepping closer and wrapping the boy in his arms.     


Bruce's growth spurt had finally hit, although it was a lot later than Bruce would have liked. He stands almost as tall as Alfred now, a frustrating inch less than six feet. "I love you," Bruce whispers into the creases of Alfred's jacket.    


Alfred can't remember the last time he heard Bruce say it. "I love you too, my boy,” he says, and he prays this time won’t be the last.    


Bruce's arms tighten around him for a moment, before he finally lets go. Collecting his luggage, he heads out the door, not looking back.    


"Safe travels," Alfred says to Bruce’s shrinking back, knowing that they will be anything but. 

* * *

 

Bruce Wayne is almost twenty three when he steps foot in Wayne Manor again.    


"Alfred?" he calls out, taking the great step across the threshold. Alfred watches, words frozen in his throat. The prodigal son has returned after all, and all Alfred can do is stare.    


An extra few inches in height, almost as tall as Thomas had stood, and a ridiculous amount of muscle mass, Bruce Wayne stands in the foyer of Wayne Manor, duffle bag slung across his shoulder. There's a scraggly beard and moustache attached to Bruce's lower face, the hair on his head not looking much better. 

"Did you forget how to use a razor while on your adventures, Master Wayne?" Alfred snarks from the top of the stairs. Hardly the first thing he planned to say to Bruce when he returned (if he returned) but the words fall from his lips all the same.   


Bruce grins, under all that hair, head tilted back to catch a glimpse of Alfred. "Seems I have."   


Alfred makes to reply, but there’s a lump in his throat. His son is home, and it takes all his restraint not to run down those stairs and embrace him in a tight hug. He takes the stairs one at a time, gripping the railing tightly. Alfred’s slow, measured steps lead him an arms length apart from Bruce, waiting for the other to move. 

“Not much has changed,” Bruce says, and it’s obvious he means the house. Alfred kept it all in order, even without another soul in the building. It’s all the same, but with Bruce home, here,  _ alive,  _ maybe the house could feel alive too. Maybe Alfred could.

Bugger it, he’s going to hug his son. He surges forward, The moment Alfred wraps his arms around him, Bruce freezes, and Alfred berates himself for being so stupid. It's been years, and Bruce is not the man he was when he left the Manor all those years ago. But Bruce hugs him back after a moment, and that anxiety melts away. The arms that embrace him are so much stronger, much more lethal than before, but now they hold Alfred’s ageing frame with a gentleness, a protectiveness, that makes Alfred’s eyes sting.    


“Welcome home,” Alfred says, and his voice doesn’t waver one bit.

* * *

 

Bruce Wayne is... old, apparently. If Bruce is old, Alfred thinks to himself, what does that make him? Ancient? A relic? But he digresses, and in truth, Bruce is old. The things he's seen on Gotham's streets, the toll it's take on his body, Bruce Wayne has grown old before his years. He’s far too old to dress up as a bat and prance around the city, but Bruce insists, and Alfred’s protests seem to mean nothing these days.    


Alfred finds Bruce in the sitting room, slumped against the arm of the sofa, just where Alfred thought he would be. He'd told Bruce to get some sleep, but of course, why would Bruce listen to the old man?

Bruce lifts his head, noticing Alfred as he enters the room. "Alfred?" he asks, a strange smallness to his voice.   


Alfred masks his concern with a blank look. "Yes, Master Bruce?"    


"Will you sit with me?"   


It's such an odd request that Alfred almost drops the tea tray he's carrying. It never used to be an odd request though, not before Bruce became a Bat in the nighttime.    


So Alfred sets the tray down on the coffee table and sits down on the sofa beside Bruce, enough space between them that it makes Alfred's chest ache a little. He remembers Bruce as a child, crawling onto the couch to sit right beside him, storybook held out in silent question. But Bruce is not a child anymore, and Alfred won't accept silent questions. "What is it?" 

Bruce looks at him. "I scared children tonight, terrified them," he says, as if Alfred didn't know. Of course he knew, he'd been listening in through the earpiece the whole bloody time. The Bat had encountered the unfortunate situation of battling criminals in their own home, which never tended to end well. This time especially, when one of the men drew a gun and started firing. It wasn’t Bruce’s fault, and Alfred had said as much, but Bruce had shrugged him off. There was too much weight on Bruce’s shoulder, it seemed, that it couldn’t bear Alfred’s hand of comfort. "I swore that no child would have to go through what I did," Bruce continues, "and I can't keep that promise anymore."

A crisis of faith, of course. Alfred swallows and tries to find the words. "You cannot save everyone, no matter how hard you try. So you save who you can, and mourn those you cannot. You are trying to save a city that doesn't know how to be saved, Master Bruce. It doesn't deserve you, and yet here you are."

Alfred doesn't get a reply, instead he gets a pair of arms wrapped around his chest, a face pressed against his collarbone. There are no tears, not yet, but silent sobs that Alfred can only feel. Alfred hugs him back, rubbing soothing circles across Bruce's back.    


He has grown into a great man, but at heart Bruce is still a boy. Martha and Thomas's boy. His boy. Alfred's arms tighten around Bruce's broad chest and holds him in silence, words vanished from his mind. The silence doesn’t matter, or maybe it does, but regardless, the embrace doesn’t need words spoken, it never really did.    


_ You are safe here _ , the hug says,  _ you are protected.  _

_ You are loved. _

 

_ FIN _

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it! Comments and Kudos are always welcome
> 
> Feel free to message me on my [tumblr](http://second-hand-heaven.tumblr.com/)
> 
> -Nova xx


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